Green Bay Packers

You know what I love about America, you said, while we walked the Spanish cobblestone in Seville.

What? I grinned, my head bobbing on your shoulder.

How loud you all are, you mused. Not even just in your speech – but in your clothes, too.

You pointed to a group of tourists, gawking lazily near the Cathedral. Look at you bloody Americans over there. Vomiting sports jerseys all over our history.

I snorted.

What is a ‘Packer’ anyway? You asked. What is a Green Bay? Some sort of monsoon? A swamp.

A bay, that’s green?

Vile.

I don’t know about ‘packer’, I admitted.

Why can’t Americans just follow our lead? You said. Manchester United – now that’s a team name. Straightforward. Self-explanatory.

I smiled; squeezed your waist.

Come visit me in America some day, I whispered. You can ask any question you want.

You kicked up a rock with the front of your sneaker.

Won’t I be hanged, mate? Death by guillotine. Isn’t that what they do to the gays in Texas?

I picked my head up from your shoulder.

Well, we wouldn’t go to Texas, would we?

You snorted.

New York, I said.

New York, you repeated.

We’ll find our way there – some day.